Eighteen.

Pink Floyd is Alice,
Wonderland seen through acid
tinged eyes and split tongues.

Seventeen.

His jungle pressed flesh
waits with dead man's camouflage
for missing saviors.

Sixteen.

Pinked flesh, hungry and
flush under the push pull of
a needle strewn back.

Fifteen.

Days of warmed laughter
fall into ready patterns
of lemonade and

softly turning fans.
Enjoyed from canopies of
our joint hammock dreams.

Fourteen.

The kids next door make
me ever grateful for the
use of birth control.

Thirteen.

I can't wait for the
turn of foliage, falling
leaves and crisp weather,

to start. Cool months should
be mandated to usurp
heat altogether.

Twelve.

Take my hand, bow to
splendor, dressed in the colors
of celebration.